


Oh, Sinner Man

by bakerstbois



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Catholicism, Child Killing, Dismemberment, F/M, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Priest!John, Priests, nothing super gory, priestlock, sfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 07:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28467774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakerstbois/pseuds/bakerstbois
Summary: Father John Watson gets an unlikely visitor. Adventure ensues. (For Fandom Trumps Hate 2020.)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. The Father

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CumberCurlyGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/gifts).



> For Fandom Trumps Hate 2020 and my bidder, CumberCurlyGirl, who requested priest!lock. I hope I delivered well enough. Special thanks to [InnerSpectrum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum) for looking over it before I posted it :)
> 
> Also, because this is confusing—Bury St. Edmund is the town that the church St. Edmund King & Martyr is located. Just so you know.

When Father John Watson returned the large brass key to his pocket and turned away from the massive green doors of St. Edmund King & Martyr Catholic Church, the last thing he expected to see was a man leaning on the pillar only feet away from him. He was tall, that much was obvious, but since he faced away from the wall light it was hard to make out any other details.

“I’m assuming you’re not the pastor of this church,” the stranger remarked in a deep baritone.

John, who had gone very still as he assessed the potential danger of his situation, relaxed minutely. Surely if he was going to be mugged, he wouldn’t be asked such a mundane question.

“No, I’m just an associate priest,” he answered, taking a few steps forward in hopes of getting a better look at the stranger. “I didn’t hear you come up the steps, sorry.”

“I was on the other side of the pillar when you came out.”

Perhaps mugging was still on the table. “Were you waiting? You could have come in, I was just cleaning up after Mass.” He could see a bit of the stranger’s face now; the dim moonlight bounced off his face in such a way that made his prominent cheekbone cast a shadow across his face.

“Didn’t want to risk the thunderbolt strike,” the stranger deadpanned.

John smiled tersely before shivering slightly--it was mid-November, after all, and the sun had long since set. “I’m sure Father Braun would be more than happy to talk to you tomorrow, if you’re looking for him. He has open Confession from noon until two.”

“I’m afraid this is rather urgent; I’m with Scotland Yard. Is he around?”

John’s eyebrows raised slightly; with each sentence, this conversation became more bizarre. 

“Has there been a crime?”

“Yes.”

John pulled his brown leather jacket tighter around himself as he considered his response for a few moments. “Can I see your badge?”

The man sighed, reaching into the pocket of his peacoat and flashing the requested item for the briefest of moments. Satisfied by his confidence if nothing else, and figuring himself and his colleague rather low-risk anyway, John started down the handful of steps. “He should be at the rectory, he’s normally reading in his study by now. I can let you in.”

The man followed several steps behind as they took the very short trip to the building next door. “I would also like to talk to you as well, assuming you have been at St. Edmund’s for at least several months.”

As John stepped onto the small stoop and reached into his pocket to retrieve his house key, he nodded. “I’ve been here about ten months. Got here the week before Ash Wednesday.” The door swung open, revealing a small foyer. John dropped his keyring and the brass church key into a dish to the left and shrugged off his jacket. “I can take your coat, if you’d like.”

John turned, but the man either ignored him or didn’t hear him; he was looking around the room intently. Foolishly, John wished for a moment that he could have tidied up a bit before having a guest; the house was always kept fairly clean by a housekeeper, but Susan only visited twice a week and John had a habit of leaving books out.

“Is the study upstairs?” the stranger asked, eyes still roaming the room.

“No, it’s just off the sitting room,” John replied, realizing he’d been staring at the man and turning away. He couldn’t help it; now that he could get a good look, he realized that the stranger from Scotland Yard was quite striking. He wouldn’t call him handsome, but something about him--maybe his opaque, turquoise eyes--made him quite good-looking. He blushed at the thought, hoping sincerely that the stranger still paid him no attention.

“I suppose I could talk to you first.”

“You don’t want to talk to us together?” John asked, a little surprised that the stranger had suddenly taken an interest in him when before he had seemed so interested in Father Braun.

Finally, the stranger looked at John (who ignored the strange fluttering feeling in his stomach). “No. It’s always good to get separate accounts when possible.”

“Was it a bad crime, then?” John asked, immediately wishing he’d picked more sophisticated words.

“Yes. We could sit down, if you like; this might take several minutes.”

“Right, of course. I can put on a kettle,” John replied as he led the stranger into the sitting room. It was rather small, with a couch and two armchairs surrounding a coffee table dominating most of the room. A television was mounted on the wall opposite the couch, and John turned it off with the remote sitting on an end table. “Father Braun has a bad habit of keeping the telly on,” he said, feeling the need to explain for some reason, but the stranger ignored him to now examine this room.

“Tea sounds lovely, thank you,” the stranger said as he pulled off his leather gloves and put them in his coat pocket, settling gracefully into the tan armchair nearest the doorway.

“Right,” John repeated, oddly glad to take leave of his visitor; he felt strange and off-balance somehow; perhaps it was because of his profession, or because of his strange introduction, or--and John immediately repressed this thought--because of his rather nice appearance. As a priest, thoughts like those simply weren’t on.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, he got himself a glass and filled it with tap water; he sipped it, looking out the window into the tiny, dimly-lit garden just outside. His nerves were beginning to subside; part of it was the familiarity of preparing the tea tray, how automatic it was for him to open the second cupboard to the left for teacups and saucers, the satisfaction of spooning just the right amount of tea leaves into the filter of the teapot. By the time he returned to the sitting room with two cups of tea and their fixings, John had a few questions to ask, and he started with the most basic one.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch it on the badge--what’s your name again?” He set the tray down on the coffee table between them and settled onto the couch, saucer in hand.

“Sherlock Holmes. And you are?” The stranger--Sherlock--looked up at him from under his lashes as he bent forward for his own tea.

“Father John Watson,” John replied. “Can I ask what you’re here investigating? I’m not a… suspect, am I?” He chuckled uneasily. Sherlock did not.

“You have not been ruled out, but there is no reason to suspect you are the perpetrator, no.”

“Cheers to that,” John muttered to himself. “I suppose you have some questions for me then?”

“Does the name Anna Mueller mean anything to you?”

“Yes, Anna used to be our housekeeper, but she moved to another parish several months ago.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised minutely. “Do you know what parish she transferred to?”

John bit his lip as he thought. “It was one of the Sacred Heart parishes in North Walsham… Saint John of the Cross I think it was. Yeah, Father Schmidt joked that he was leaving one John for another.”

“Who?” Sherlock asked, voice level, but John could sense a sudden current of energy coming from him now.

“Henry Schmidt. He was another associate priest here, but he got transferred to Aylsham in July. Anna went with him.” He started to say more, but decided that unless he was asked, he wouldn’t add any more than the hard facts.

Almost before he had finished his sentence, Sherlock had whipped out a mobile and was tapping rapidly at it, standing and pacing in the small room. After he finished what John assumed was a text and shoved his mobile back into his pocket, he turned on his heel and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth as his gaze returned to John.

“I need you to tell me everything about the relationship between Anna Mueller and Henry Schmidt.”

John licked his lips nervously, standing. “I don’t--I think Father Braun would be better--”

“No. I need you to tell me. Father Watson, lives may depend on this.”

His mouth fell open. “Anna isn’t--she wasn’t--is she dead?”

“Father Watson,” Sherlock pressed, bracing his hands over the back of the armchair and nearly buzzing with suppressed energy.

“John,” he corrected without thinking as his brain caught up. “I--I don’t know for sure, it’s just speculation, but I think--well, all the staff, as far as I know--think they were having some sort of affair. Henry would sleep… well, not here, a few times a week, especially towards the end. We were afraid gossip would spread amongst the parishioners, so we--Father Braun, I mean--requested that Henry be moved to another parish. We hoped Anna would stay here and find someone else, but she went with him to Aylsham.”

“Was there anything odd about Father Schmidt? Was he well-liked?”

“He was quiet. Erratic, maybe, he would get easily agitated sometimes. Apparently his homilies were rather eccentric, too; I never heard one, but from what I could infer from the welcome I got from parishioners, they were glad that Henry would not be saying Mass as often.”

Sherlock had begun pacing again. “A killer like that--” John’s stomach swooped as his fear was confirmed-- “has had practice. This wasn’t his first murder. While Father Schmidt was here in Bury St. Edmunds, were there any unsolved murders? Freak accidents?”

John’s eyebrows furrowed as he searched his memory, his adrenaline starting to spike in response to Sherlock’s frantic energy. “I mean, he was here for two or three years before I got here, but in May a little girl went missing. They never solved it.”

“The killer would need someplace private for this.” John wasn’t sure if Sherlock was talking to him or himself. ”I’m assuming a murder could not take place in this building without someone finding out.” He glanced at John again. “Are there any places Father Schmidt could have enough privacy to potentially dismember--”

“Dismember?” John blurted out before he could stop himself.

Sherlock paused, having the good grace to look rather sheepish for the briefest of moments. “Yes, Anna Mueller was dismembered, but it was too clean of a job to be a first try. Are there any places, on property owned by Saint Edmund’s especially, that he would have the time and space to do that? A…storage shed, or…?” He trailed off.

“We don’t have a shed, but… I guess the basement of the church isn’t used often. It’s where the furnace is, and we keep decorations down there, a few relics that we have, spare furniture… Last time someone would have been down there was probably to put away the Easter things towards the beginning of April, and the only other time we decorate is Advent and Christmas, so probably no one has been down there since.”

“Show me.” Again, Sherlock turned toward John, eyes shining. “The Yard is looking into Henry Schmidt, and Aylsham is nearly two hours away anyway, I’d be too late. We have time.”

John only thought about it for a few moments. “Alright. I’ll get the keys.”


	2. The Son

It wasn’t until after they had descended the steps to the outdoor walkout basement and John was putting the key into the lock that he asked, “Is that why you didn’t let me see your badge up close?”

He turned to look at Sherlock, hand on the doorknob. Sherlock’s eyebrows were furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“You said a few minutes ago that Scotland Yard is looking into Henry. As if you’re not actually part of Scotland Yard like you said. But you’re obviously working with them. What are you then? I’d say a private detective, but the police don’t go to private detectives.”

Sherlock smirked. “I’m a consulting detective. I’m the only one in the world, I invented the job. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

John’s hand dropped as he turned completely to face Sherlock, who was still standing on the bottom step. “The police don’t consult amateurs.”

For several seconds, Sherlock stared, expression unreadable. Then, suddenly, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

It was John’s turn to stare as he processed this. “Afghanistan. How did you--no. If you’re with Scotland Yard, you’d have found this information before you came to St. Edmund’s.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I had to ask you if you were the pastor, your name, and how long you’d been here. I don’t generally ask questions I already know the answers to unless I was expecting a lie. I came straight here when I was told by her old landlord that she had moved after leaving St. Edmund’s for another parish, but he didn’t know which one.”

That was true, John had to admit, but the thought that his background was somehow so apparent to this stranger was unsettling. “Alright then. How’d you know about me?”

“I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists: you've been abroad but not sunbathing, recently invalidated--wounded in action, based on the fact it’s partly psychosomatic; you have a slight limp but you left your cane leaning against the door of St. Edmund’s after I first approached you.”

John’s mouth, which was already parted in awe, fell open at this last remark. He cast a subtle glance around but he knew Sherlock was right; he’d left his cane behind nearly an hour ago.

“That is also part of the reason you haven’t been forced to stay behind at the rectory. You’re no civilian, and I’m sure you have a few tricks up your sleeve that could come in use.” He finally took the last step and brushed past John, twisting open the door with a flourish. In true horror story form, it creaked open slowly, the streetlamps overhead casting an eerie, unnatural light onto the objects just inside.

It was a massive room, taking up nearly the entire length and width of the church above, and was filled with various pieces of furniture-- old pews, folding chairs, and dozens of spare liturgical items-- arranged into thin aisles. Sherlock stepped inside as John flicked the lightswitch; the ten or so ceiling fixtures blinked to life, illuminating a fair portion of the room, but the outer corners were left dark. The hairs on the back of John’s neck stood up as he looked around, trying to imagine where a good place to dismember a body down here would be. “Oh.”

Sherlock, who had slowly and meticulously started making his way down the first aisle, turned back to John. “Problem?”

“No, it’s just… only a hunch, but there’s a spare altar in the very back and I wouldn’t be surprised if…” A sudden wave of nausea rolled over him as he pictured the innocent little girl he’d seen in the newspaper splayed across the wooden table.

Sherlock seemed to have the same thought. “A sacrificial lamb,” he mused. “Where is it?”

“It’s in the back corner, under where the entrance to the church would be, I think.” The thought that he and dozens of parishioners had walked directly over the spot of such a horrific crime without realizing it… John sniffed, straightened his back, tried to put himself back into the mindset he’d had in Afghanistan; this would not be the first body he would see, or even that of a child.

John led the way, stepping carefully to avoid the various tripping hazards. The floor was coated with a fine layer of dust, testament to the fact that it had been some time since anyone had been there. Before he’d really had time to prepare himself, John found himself directly in front of the old mahogany altar; it had been replaced nearly ten years ago during the church’s last major renovation, and had sat in this corner since.

The surface itself was fairly clean; there were a few small brown stains and nicks in the wood, but it looked fairly innocuous. The floor beneath, however, was a different story.

“I think you’ve found your murder scene, Mr. Holmes,” John deadpanned.

“Call me Sherlock,” the detective said distractedly as he dropped to his knees and began examining the large burgundy stain that had formed on the concrete below the altar. “Lots of smaller drip stains, which explains the table being so clean; it is customary for altars to have a cloth covering, is it not?”

“Yes, and we have several spare altar cloths down here somewhere, Henry probably knew where they were kept.”

Sherlock stood and took in the scene. “So the body was dismembered here with the cloth on; it became saturated with blood and dripped onto the floor. He cut too deep in a few places and let the blood seep onto the altar, explaining those stains. But then what?” He whirled around in both directions, eyes scanning the floor. “Ah.”

A metre or so away was another bloodstain, but this one was different--it was the obvious outline of some sort of box or container. Sherlock dropped to the floor again, face centimetres from the stain this time. “He put the body parts in some kind of storage container immediately after, and some of the blood ran down the sides. Obvious. But where did he take it? Where could a man who lives in a shared sp--”

His face lit up and he was on his feet faster than John would have thought physically possible. “Brilliant, John, and we still have time to get there before the Yard ruins it.”

He bounded off towards the door, and John followed eagerly, adrenaline racing in a way he’d thought would never happen again after the war. They burst out into the night air, and Sherlock was at the top of the stairs to ground level before reality sunk in for John.

“Wait. I can’t.”

Sherlock turned on his heel, eyes gleaming. “Why not?”

John’s heart felt like lead as he slowly locked up the basement, trying to stifle his disappointment. “I mean… I’m saying Mass in the morning, but in any case, I can’t just go gallivanting off into the night looking for a murderer, it’s just not--”

“You’re going to have to give a statement to the Yard anyway, might as well get it done now,” Sherlock interrupted. “You’ll be back in plenty of time for tomorrow’s service, I promise.”

“Why do you want me to come so badly?” John asked, the self-loathing he’d worked so hard to bury all these years bubbling to the surface in the form of anger. “You don’t know me from Adam, and you aren’t interested in me just because I’m a priest, so wouldn’t you just be better off leaving me here?”

“Don’t you want to come?” Sherlock asked after a pause, seeming genuinely baffled at the prospect that he might not.

“Of course I want to,” John said a little too loudly, flexing his hands as he fought his sudden, irrational anger. “But I’m a priest. Not a consulting detective like you are.”

“Have your identity crisis in the cab on the way to Cambridge, you’ll have an hour,” Sherlock suggested, disappearing out of John’s limited sight (he was still at the bottom of the stairs.) John sighed, wiping a hand across his face, hating how alive he felt.


	3. The Holy Spirit

John tapped his knee against his recently-retrieved cane, staring out the cab window as he tried to decide what emotion he should be feeling.

“How did you end up at St. Edmund’s from Aylsham?” he asked to fill the silence. He turned to Sherlock, who was typing rapidly on his mobile.

“Anna’s head was found in a pillowcase. I traced the buyer of that pillowcase to a flat belonging to an H. Schmidt. He had several emails printed out that were sent from someone named Anna Mueller, who had an IP Address that led me to her old Bury St. Edmund’s flat.”

John hummed in understanding. “Right… where are we going?”

Sherlock smirked, pocketing his mobile and glancing at his fellow passenger. “While you were making tea, the Yard found some bills for another flat in Cambridge. It seems he has several flats.”

“On a Diocese of East Anglia budget?” John asked in surprise, and Sherlock let out a deep, rumbling chuckle that made John feel warm all over.

“Well, the flat in Aylsham is actually co-leased with someone listed as A. Schmidt, who I assume to be Anna Mueller. The Cambridge flat that we’re going to is also in the name of an E. Muret. Do you know anyone with that name?”

John hesitated for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

Sherlock was silent for a few minutes as he continued to type away on his mobile. “There’s an Ernest A. Muret, MBBS with a dermatology clinic in Cambridge. It’s only a few blocks away from the flat, actually.”

“Actually, I do know him.” John turned to Sherlock, pleased by the look of surprise on his face.

“Don’t tell me he studied the priesthood with you,” Sherlock scoffed, but he seemed intrigued to hear more.

“Of course not, but I did go to medical school with him.”

If Sherlock was surprised before, he was flabbergasted now. “You what?”

John smirked, savoring the look on Sherlock’s face for a few more seconds before explaining. “I studied at King’s College. I was in foundation year one when I decided to join the seminary.”

“You were a doctor and you decided to become a Catholic priest?” Sherlock asked incredulously, and John had to smile at his tone.

“A junior doctor,” John corrected, looking out the window to conceal his smile.

“But… why?”

“It was my vocation.”

Sherlock made a noise deep in his throat but refrained from commenting on John’s ‘vocation’. “How do you know you weren’t supposed to become a doctor? I don’t imagine God uses a burning bush anymore.” 

John chuckled at the combination of sarcasm and disdain in his voice. “I was given an ultimatum. But enough about me, don’t you want to hear about Arthur?”

“Arthur?” Sherlock asked. “Muret went by his middle name, then?”

“Yeah, he hated the name Ernest. Mind you, I didn’t know him very well, and he mostly kept to himself. Come to think of it, it isn’t such a surprise he and Henry got on, they’re both a little… odd.”

“You’re not telling me that you think Ernest Muret played a part in the murders?” Sherlock asked.

“No, I’m just not surprised he liked Henry enough to get a flat with him. Either that or he was looking to save on rent, he was always very stingy. Never went out for a pint after exams like the rest of us, told us we were wasting our money.” John rolled his eyes at the memory of the stocky blond sneering from his favorite couch in their common area as he watched the other students leaving for the pub.

This seemed to intrigue Sherlock a great deal, and much of the remaining ride passed in silence.

~~~

By the time they pulled up to the flat in Cambridge, John’s entire body felt like a live wire being pulled taut. As Sherlock handed the cabbie his fare, John looked up the facade of the building. It looked very nondescript, with window boxes holding now-dormant flowers and shutters wide open.

It wasn’t until he stepped out of the cab that John wished he had thought to change into plain clothes; he felt like his white clerical was a beacon that pegged him as an easy target. With a sigh, he reached up and removed it, placing it securely in his trouser pocket. He still looked rather odd, wearing black trousers and a black dress shirt, but he felt better.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked, flipping the collar of his coat up.

“After you,” John replied, surprised at how calm he felt now.

“Muret might be inside, along with Schmidt. Could be dangerous.” Sherlock glanced sideways at him.

“Yet here I am.”

Sherlock smirked, obviously pleased with John’s response. Without further ado, he approached the front door and knocked. “They’re on the second floor, the landlord should answer.”

After a minute, the door opened and revealed a hairy, slightly overweight man wearing jeans and an undershirt. “Yeah?”

“Scotland Yard, we need to have a look around one of your flats.” Sherlock flashed the silver badge briefly before stuffing it back into his pocket.

“Who’s that?” the landlord asked, nodding towards John.

“A trainee. Now, can you tell me about the tenants of unit B?”

The landlord scratched his shaven head. “I mean, they’re not here much, dunno why they even rent this place. I think you should--”

Just then there was a crash from the floor above, and without another word, John and Sherlock were running up the stairs and bursting into Muret and Schmidt’s flat.

“Scotland Yard,” Sherlock shouted, and there was another crash from an adjoining room. Without much time to get a look at their surroundings they were throwing open the door to another room.

This was a small bedroom, dominated by the queen-sized bed against the back wall. There was one tiny dresser, which had all its drawers open, and kneeling on the floor shoving clothes into a duffel bag was none other than Henry Schmidt. The bed was unmade and his hair was matted on one side; one side of his face still had creases on it from being pressed against his pillow’s seam.

In the distance sirens blared, and John sorely hoped that they were coming to arrest Schmidt, who was slowly standing. Without warning, he reached into the top drawer of his dresser and drew a butcher’s knife that gleamed in the streetlights outside.

Before he could think, John slapped the knife out of Schmidt’s hand, drove him into the wall behind him, and took one leg out from under him. Schmidt slid down the wall, bending one ankle into an awkward angle.

“You broke it,” Schmidt moaned, voice soft and soothing and not at all killer-like.

“I sprained it,” John corrected. “I know how to sprain people, Henry.”

“We’re lucky he’s an idiot,” Sherlock said behind them, and John glanced over to the detective, who was looking at an item in the suitcase. He delicately extracted a handgun and examined it. “SIG Sauer P226, the serial number’s been filed off. Looks like Father Schmidt has been dabbling in the black market, too.”

“I had no choice,” wailed Schmidt, who was still sitting against the wall. “God told me to sacrifice her, John. He commanded it.”

“Or, more likely, you found out she was pregnant and had to stop word from spreading,” Sherlock replied, disgust evident. The sirens were drawing close now.

“I did it because I love her,” Schmidt sniffled. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned for the door but stopped.

“Aha!”

“What?” asked John, who still had his eyes trained on the pitiful-looking killer.

“I think we’ve found the missing girl.”

John turned to look at what Sherlock was talking about; sure enough, right next to the closet door, there was a large black plastic container. Sherlock was on his hands and knees and was now sniffing the tub.

A door in the hallway opened and footsteps approached. “Thought I heard noises, love, is everything--”

Ernest Arthur Muret froze in the doorway, face half-covered in shaving cream and a bright blue towel wrapped around his waist.

“Watson?” Muret asked, face twisting into a grimace of confusion. “I heard you--”

“I’m afraid you have some explaining to do,” Sherlock interrupted as lights began to flash through the windows and car doors slammed.

Muret sighed and ran a hand through his wet hair. “I want to talk to my lawyer.”

Running footsteps up the stairs, a door bursting open… Muret was pushed to the side as John leaped backwards to avoid getting trampled.

Four officers were on Schmidt immediately, pulling him off the ground; he made some sort of complaint, apparently, because one of the officers turned and shouted, “He needs medical attention,” voice dripping with disgust.

John stepped forward. “Actually, I’m a doctor… it’s only sprained. Just needs to be wrapped.” John glanced at Schmidt again; he looked pathetic, in jeans and a graphic t-shirt with some band’s logo on it. He balanced on one foot, the other hovering inches above the floor. Had it not been for the two officers holding him, John was sure Schmidt would have been wobbling.

He felt a hand clutch at his bicep and he turned to find Sherlock right beside him.

“I think we should get outside,” he said into John’s ear, voice low. The hairs on the back of John’s neck prickled at the burst of hot air.

John nodded and they picked their way around the handful of people in the room, some touching things John didn’t think they were supposed to be touching yet. Sherlock skipped down the steps gracefully and John… well, a little less gracefully and a little more noisily. On the street were five police cars, and Sherlock began to approach one.

John closed his eyes and breathed in the cold November air. Strange that it had only been a few hours since this whole adventure began. He followed after Sherlock, eager to hear what he had to say.

Sherlock was talking to a plain-clothes detective with short grey hair. “—find the remains of a girl missing from Bury St. Edmund, she’s the goo in the tub next to the bed, so tell Anderson to be careful with it. Also, I think we caught your Cambridge weapons dealer.”

“You found guns?” the detective asked, half-impressed.

“No, I deduced it from Schmidt’s flatmate. Look in the basement, that’s probably where the weapons are hidden.”

It was hard to keep up with Sherlock, and John only realized he was staring in awe when the consulting detective turned to him.

“This is Dr. John Watson; he helped a great deal with this case.” John looked sharply at Sherlock but didn’t correct the title given. “Now, if you don’t mind, I believe I’ve kept Dr. Watson for far too long and he’s a long ways from home.”

“But—”

“John will be more than happy to come into the Yard and make a statement tomorrow, after he’s had some sleep. It can wait, Geoff.”

“Greg,” the man apparently named Greg muttered morosely. “I suppose you’re right, though. Dr. Watson, I’m Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade with Scotland Yard. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

John shook the hand offered to him and Greg clasped him on sounding the back as he walked past him and began shouting orders.

“Let’s go to the main road and find a cab, we’ll never get one here,” Sherlock said, looking slightly uncertain. “If I was too forward in saying—”

“I’ll make it to London tomorrow somehow. It’s no problem.” John smiled tentatively at Sherlock and they started off down the pavement side-by-side.

“Why did you become a priest?” asked Sherlock once they were far enough away from curious ears.

“I fell in love,” John replied simply, and then added, “with a man.”

Sherlock’s stride didn’t falter. “I thought your sexuality might have something to do with it. Men loving men is not a crime, John, and it’s not a sin.”

Sherlock’s surprisingly gentle tone of voice revealed more to John than the detective probably realized.

“I didn’t think I had any other choice. I was afraid that even if I left him, another would come.”

Sherlock was silent for a minute. “Did you know that some biblical scholars translate the original Hebrew of the Leviticus passage forbidding homosexuality to actually be about incest or paedophilia?”

“No, I didn’t.” John replied simply.

“And did you know you left your cane in the cab when we arrived?”

“No.” An odd feeling was bubbling up in John’s stomach, a mixture of fear and excitement that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“The world needs doctors more than it needs priests, John, and it’s not unheard of for a priest to discern out of their role.” added Sherlock as they rounded the corner onto the main road. “And you’ve proven to be quite useful today. I’ve been thinking about getting a flatmate who will help me with my cases.”

John should have been angrier than he was at the suggestion his calling from God should be tossed aside for some glamorous, dangerous lifestyle on a mere whim.

“Just think about it. I live in London; maybe I’ll pop by the Yard while you’re there tomorrow. It’s time you do something that makes you happy, not everyone else.”

Sherlock flagged a cab down and indicated for John to get in. “You’re not coming?” John asked, irritated by how disappointed that made him.

“I’ve got to get back to London, I have a feeling Hopkins is going to finally cave in and pay me a visit.”

What this meant John had no idea, but Sherlock’s smile was infectious. “Right. I’ll try to be at the Yard around noon.”

“You getting in or out?” the cabbie griped, turning to Sherlock.

“Lunch will be on me,” Sherlock finished with a wink and closed the door of the cab.

Father John Watson had a big decision to make, and he hated that he already knew which life he’d choose. His hands were steady, his leg felt fine, and John Watson felt alive for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry Schmidt is based entirely off of Hans Schmidt, the only priest to ever be executed in America. [ His Wikipedia page](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hans_Schmidt_\(priest\)) is interesting and has a lot of details I wish I could have snuck in.


End file.
